by Gabi Moore
I looked at my watch.
“Ok, well, what did you want to know?”
She looked alarmed. It’s like she hadn’t thought this plan through in the least.
“What …do I want to know? Um…” she said, eyes darting everywhere in the room to avoid mine.
“Well, can I see some of them?” she asked. She was a good few years my senior, but at that moment, she had the face of a schoolgirl.
I smiled.
“Sure.”
She followed me into a separate room and I lifted some tarps to reveal a piece ready to ship out the following day.
“Oh my God. What …how does it…?” she said, and instantly her hands were trailing over the steel bars.
I loved the look on her face as the mental cogs worked and she tried to figure it out. Tried to imagine which body parts went where. She looked charmingly puzzled. Then she laughed.
“I’m not sure if I’m missing something, but I cannot see what you’re supposed to do with this.”
I gave her a naughty wink.
“See this? This is for hands.”
“And this?”
“For the other pair of hands.”
“Ok, but then what about this then? For the feet?”
“No,” I said naughtily. “It’s for a third pair of hands.”
Her eyes went wild. It took her a few seconds and I looked at her looking at the device, watching her fill in the fleshy blanks.
“Oh my God… How do you come up with that?”
“Intuition.”
She looked around the rest of the room.
“Oh yes, I remember, dreams and things. Magic and hocus-pocus,” she said playfully.
“There’s nothing magical about intuition.”
“No?” She was walking slowly around the workshop, taking tools in her small hands, examining them, and placing them down again. “Then what’s it about?” she asked.
“It’s just about noticing things, I guess,” I said, and followed her at a close distance. “For instance, I’ve noticed you’ve deliberately worn a dress today you know accentuates your beautiful waist.”
She flashed me a hot look.
“This? No, that doesn’t mean anything. I just like this dress, I just wore it,” she said quickly.
“And I also notice, for instance, that whenever you’re telling a bit of a lie, you tighten your fists, just a little,” I said, holding eye contact. She quickly looked down at her hands and, shocked, released them and folded her arms.
“That’s just... that’s…”
“I notice that you’re very keen to say that nothing means anything.” I was standing very close to her now. I didn’t need to check the time. I knew she had only been here for six or seven minutes so far.
“Maybe it is ‘magic’ that you reached out to me, drove all the way out here and put on that dress just so you could stand in front of me right now, for no reason at all…”
She parted her lips.
I took a step away from her and pulled back just as she leaned in for a kiss.
She frowned. “By the way, I didn’t come here to see you. I seriously did want you to make a piece for me.”
I turned to look at her. Her hands were held arched open at her sides. She had a beautiful body. She was long and graceful, with the hips of a ballet dancer and thighs lean as a gazelle’s. The fabric of her green dress clung suggestively to the gentle curve of her lower belly.
She was perfect.
I took a step closer to her.
“I’d love to,” I said quietly, and before I could think about it, her lips were on mine.
She whimpered softly as her warm tongue folded into my lips. It was as though I could taste the tension melting off of her. We paused there with one another, eyes closed, delicately touching this new moment. There was no excuse she could make now. This is what she had really come here for.
To my surprise she kissed me passionately, her hand reaching up for the base of my neck and anchoring there to pull me deeper in. I found myself smiling as she sunk her greedy tongue further in, completely ravenous. And without thinking my body responded, my hands darting to her tight waist and pawing at the delicious curve where her flanks met her hipbones.
I leaned in deeper, my tongue caressing her, sending her staggering back and bumping into the wall behind her, tools clattering to the floor.
“Mark…” she breathed, but I kissed her all over, planting kiss after kiss on her opened lips, her little tongue, her neck and shoulders…
“Mark, I…”
“Fuck, you’re beautiful” I breathed into her neck. I was nearly dizzy with how quickly she was turning me on. Rock hard, I pressed my eager body into hers and her hips curled to meet mine instantly. Her hair smelled like cinnamon.
“Mark, I shouldn’t,” she moaned, but the way her little hands clutched desperately round my shoulders, the little shuddering breaths she drew as her hips started grinding into mine …they all told me that yes, she sure as hell should.
She pulled away and held up her hands.
“I can’t. I can’t do this.”
“Why not?”
She looked around, flustered, then soothed the lower half of her dress.
“I just can’t.” She cleared her throat and started scanning the room for her jacket. “I mean it, though. I really was curious about the furniture. I really do want you to make me something.”
“What should I make?” I said, suddenly feeling like someone had let all my air out.
“I don’t care,” she said with irritation. “Just make something. Anything.”
“Sure,” I said, and watched as she made for the door. “You’re the boss, after all.”
“What? I’m the boss?” she turned to look at me.
“Yeah, but you don’t want to be, do you?”
She shot me a fiery look.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I casually looked at my fingernails and took my time answering her.
“You’re in charge. You’re the boss. You have everything under control. But I think you wish I’d take that all away from you.” I paused and caught her gaze, staring at her intently. “Force it from you, even.”
She fumed and turned on her heel for the door.
“I can’t believe I came here,” she muttered.
“Hey, Kat,” I said quickly. She turned to face me, hand on the doorknob.
“What?”
“I’m glad you came.”
She looked embarrassed.
“I was just curious. I don’t know what all your other weirdo clients want or whatever, and why they even come to you, but –”
“They come for the same reason you came.”
“Oh? And what’s that?”
“Because they need to. Because some part of them, even if it’s just a small part, wants to surrender.”
Before I knew it, she was out the door, slamming it behind her.
Chapter 8 - Kat
If there’s anything in the world I’m good at doing it’s deciding things. And I had decided I would never, ever go back to that stupid workshop and never, ever seek out that man and whatever immature ‘lifestyle’ he was peddling.
It was fine for some, sure, and I wasn’t going to be judgmental, but if I allowed myself to go down that path, who knows what dumb shit I’d do. After Jeff left I promised myself I was going to do things properly. And Mark and his elaborate toys were decidedly improper. A waste of time.
My phone pinged. It was Anthony.
Hope I haven’t been stood up ;)
I don’t know what had gotten into me, but I loathed that little winking face with everything in my heart. I hadn’t been myself all morning, and now I was running late (if there’s a second thing I’m good at in this world, it’s being on time …or so I thought) and couldn’t find a parking space on his busy street.
By the time I arrived flustered on his front doorstep, I was a full twenty minutes late. He opened the door,
all pressed chinos and tight smile, and welcomed me in. He felt good to hug, but in a strange way. Oh God. I realized he smelled vaguely of my father.
“I’m so glad you finally made it,” he said politely. He guided me to the living room and thrust a drink in my hand.
His apartment was super tidy, the kind of clean a house gets when the person who lives there is mostly at work. All his furniture looked new and unused. Like a comfy but unassuming three-star hotel.
I looked around for evidence of a toddler. I found none.
We chatted about the weather, about work, about every damn thing except what I really wanted to talk about: sex.
It was the one thing neither of us had mentioned, had hinted at or, possibly, even though about. And the longer we did, the stranger it felt. It started to feel like maybe under those beige chinos was just a flat bit of skin-colored plastic, like a Ken doll crotch. I tried to hide my smile. The whiskey he had given me was going straight to my head.
He sat on the sofa next to me and put his hand on my knee. We both looked down at it.
God, why was I being such a prudish baby about all this? Anthony was the perfect catch. I had already decided that I would accept his proposal. I had done it quietly, this morning, all by myself, because it was the obvious choice. It made sense. There was no reason not to. He was stable, family minded, responsible and mature. He had a clean apartment, was well educated and, not least of all, he wanted me.
So then why the hell did his hand feel like a chunk of concrete on my leg?
It was Mark.
He was getting under my skin.
I had thought about him all this morning, all last night… I was dropping things and bumping into tables and zoning out. It was ridiculous. I forced him out of my mind. The kiss was an accident. Nothing more than a mistake.
I smiled at Anthony.
“You know, you are allowed to kiss me,” I said, and tilted my head to the side. He seemed surprised.
“You want me to kiss you?”
I laughed.
“Don’t you want to kiss me?” I said, tilting my head to the other side.
He took my hand in his, the way you would to a dying woman, the way a priest takes your hand, and looked me earnestly in the eye.
“Kat, now’s probably a good time to mention how seriously I take the issue of consent.”
“Consent?”
“I think clear communication is vital. I don’t ever intend to overstep my bounds with you.”
I laughed out loud.
“Christ, it was just a kiss,” I said.
He frowned.
“Consent is consent. It doesn’t matter how small, wouldn’t you agree?”
I cleared my throat.
“Sure, yes, of course. It’s just …OK, you’re being so serious now,” I said and tried to laugh again. His hand was no longer on my leg.
“If we’re moving too fast, I’m happy to dial it back a bit, I totally understand if you’re not ready for anything physical just yet,” he said.
Now it was my turn to frown.
Moving too fast? It felt like I had to file an application in triplicate and wait six months just to mention the idea of kissing him. My nerve had anyway gone. The idea of kissing him now just left me cold.
“Can I get some more whiskey?” I said, and held up my glass.
He gave me a patronizing smile.
“Kat, are you using alcohol to avoid anything?” he asked.
I clanked my glass loudly on the table.
“Anthony, I’m sorry, I’m just …this is all so serious, you know? Can we just have fun?”
He looked pained. “You’re not having fun?”
I glared at him.
“Well, it’s just …I like to let things evolve organically. I suppose… we should just go with it when the moment feels right, you know?”
He didn’t seem to like this idea. He frowned a bit more, looked puzzled, then shook his head and gave me a strange look.
“Of course, I get that completely.” He smiled warmly at me. “It’s just …it’s been a long time since I’ve done this whole dating thing, you know, and I want to do things properly,” he said in earnest.
I leaned forward and hovered a little in front of him, holding his gaze. He had a gentle face, soft eyes and a small, thoughtful mouth.
I kissed him. Without thinking too much about it, I leaned forward and planted a sweet, brief kiss on his lips and drew back a little to see his reaction. His eyes were downcast, as though he was trying to decipher something I had just said to him in another language. After the longest time, his eyes still avoiding mine, he nodded and reached for my glass.
“You said you wanted a refill?” he asked casually.
I giggled.
“Now who’s avoiding?” I said playfully. He shot me a hurt look. God this was awkward.
“I’m sorry, should have I asked for consent?” I said and giggled again, trying to make light of how heavy everything suddenly felt.
“You’re making fun of me. How would you have liked it, if I just sprung that on you?” he said coldly.
“Um, like you sprung a whole marriage proposal on me?” In my head it had sounded like another playful jab. But once the words were on my lips I realized how irritated I sounded. “I’m sorry, we’re getting off on the wrong foot here. I just like a man to take some initiative, that’s all.”
It was beginning to seem like not even a second whiskey would save this train wreck of an evening.
“Initiative?”
“Yeah, you know. You don’t have to discuss every last detail, sometimes it’s sexy to just go for it you know?”
“Well, I have a more egalitarian understanding of relationships,” he said curtly.
“I’m not saying I don’t support being egalitarian. Look, we’re misunderstanding each other here…”
“I consider myself a feminist, Kat. I think cheap power plays between men and women are dangerous. And regressive. I don’t believe in ‘just going for it’.”
I laughed nervously.
“Hey, Anthony, you’re misunderstanding me, I completely agree. But I’m telling you I like a man to take some direction, you know. I’m telling you that. I’m not saying be like a caveman or something, just take the lead a little, you know, be a little bold.”
“I could never do that to a woman.”
We looked at each other. I got up, walked over to the counter and poured us both another whiskey.
“I haven’t been myself these last few days,” I said lamely. “Can we just start again?”
For some stupid reason, I thought of Massooma Tavawalla. She popped into my head, wearing the same frown Anthony had just given me. He was right, of course. I couldn’t hold some principles dear but then throw them out the window when they were inconvenient. I had built my whole life around empowering women. I had spent more than a decade teaching women to value their own voices, to demand respect, to earn their way in the world and to question the burdens placed on them by the cultures they were born into.
And now here I was, play-acting some cheesy Fifty Shades style nonsense and asking this kind, sincere man to communicate less with me, and to show me less respect.
I took a big swig of whiskey.
I was crazy for sure. I had already decided that Anthony was the right man for me, and here he was, proving exactly why he would be so good for me. He’d hold me accountable. He wouldn’t put up with my bullshit. He’d take me seriously. Didn’t I say I was done dealing with immature boys, and that I wanted a mature man in my life? Well, here he was.
I walked over to the sofa again.
“Anthony, if you’re OK with it, I’d like to kiss you,” I said plainly. I put my glass down on the side table. He looked up at me, fingers interlaced over his knees.
“I’d like to kiss you too,” he said.
I knelt down in front of him and gingerly placed my lips on his. They pushed back a little, and we kissed awkwardly. He pulled away and s
miled at me, then placed his hands on my shoulders.
It would be fine. I didn’t even care about sex that much anyway. And things would get better. Chemistry was overrated. It’s not what ultimately mattered. Not really.
Chapter 9 - Mark
I always knew she’d come back. Just not this soon.
She pitched up in a boring pair of work slacks and a blousy, loose shirt that gave no hint of her killer curves underneath. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and when she buzzed to come in for her second ‘consult’, she had a look on her face that …well, let’s just say I decided to play along with her claim that she had only come to chat about her piece, which, she was quick to remind me, she was only getting in the first place because she was curious. Just curious.
She carelessly tossed a briefcase onto the floor and took off her jacket.
“So, what have you come up with for me?” she asked.
Without her copper mane, her cheekbones looked even more fragile than usual. In my fantasies of her, her hair was always loose. Always streaming around her face, falling into her half closed eyes as her head thrashed from side to side… But pulled back was also a good look, I guess.
I went over to the shelf and pulled off a big leather bound book and started to show her some sketches and photographs from previous pieces. I had spent the better part of the week thinking about this woman. It wasn’t often that a client just gave me a blank slate and told me to build something for them from scratch, but I relished the idea.
What would such a woman need? What would she want? Did she scream out and throw back her head at the moment of orgasm or was she the kind to curl up tightly and shake and whimper when her body couldn’t handle anymore? How much pain could a woman with such a delicate body really take? Or was it just the threat of pain that she’d enjoy? Dark wood or steel for this elfin creature? Chain restraints or velvet?
When I pushed the leather bound book towards her, the expression on her face remained stony.
“This is it?” she said. She pored over the sketches, then took a look at the diagrams with crudely sketched people using it. “Oh, I see…”